


Basil, Dog About Town

by Callie4180



Series: The Winter Garden (and associated magic) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Inspired by James Herriot, The Winter Garden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: Does John find a dog, or does the dog find him?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Winter Garden (and associated magic) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587826
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	1. By the Side of the Road

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the story "Oscar, The Socialite Cat" by James Herriot. Herriot and his stories inspired many a veterinarian to first consider the field, this humble author included. The Oscar story was always one of my favorites, and when I was thinking about what might have happened after the events of The Winter Garden, well, my first thought was that John would get a dog...but not just any dog.
> 
> This story is set in the Winter Garden 'verse. You probably don't need to have read that story to understand this one, though. Just know that the garden at the cottage is magic, and the bees produce honey that soothe pain.
> 
> This fic was written almost entirely during the weekly word sprint sessions offered through the 221b Writers' Suite crew, over a period of several months. I salute my fellow authors in those sessions, gifted creators all, who have been both solace and motivation as I navigated a truly terrible period in my personal life. All are welcome at the sprints, by the way; look us up at @221bconwriters on Twitter, or email 221bconwriters at gmail. 
> 
> With my usual heartfelt, eternal thanks to 221bJen for her support and her betaing. She's just wonderful.

With all the changes of the past few months--the shift to rural living, the year-round beauty of the Sussex cottage, the miraculous easing of his chronic, harassing pain, an honest, loving relationship with his daughter, and of course, his long-time best friend and dearest love becoming fully resident in his bed--John Watson thought he should be glad that one thing, at least, was proving to be wholly, utterly, and completely unyielding: to wit, that the aforementioned long-time best friend and dearest love at times could be, without qualification, the biggest arsehole on the planet.

John slammed the cottage door behind him and threw himself into the autonomous car, the door automatically sliding shut as the engine clicked to a start. “Destination: bakery,” he gritted out, teeth clenched, and the car, not concerned with his mood, shifted into gear and hummed quietly toward the highway. The peaceful acceleration was unsatisfactory, and he felt that particular, all too familiar Sherlock-inspired combination of rage and insult surge in his veins. “Bloody hell!” he shouted, as he slammed the heel of his hand once, hard, against the dashboard, and then again for good measure. He longed for the wasteful roar of an unmuffled engine, the squeal of rear tires fishtailing through gravel. Technology was well and good, and he was all for safe, clean energy, but sometimes you just wanted to stomp on the gas pedal and make a dramatic exit. 

Sometimes you wanted your partner to actually look up and notice you were leaving.

The browns and golds of the Sussex winter slid by outside the window as John breathed harshly for a minute or two, letting his breath steam up the otherwise pristine glass. Time started to take the edge off his anger, and after another kilometre had passed, he slumped and gave a massive sigh. John knew Sherlock hadn’t meant any harm, hadn’t really been ignoring him. In fact, Sherlock’s almost inhuman gift for concentration was as intrinsic a part of him as his long legs and silver eyes, and honestly, when it was directed at John personally, over dinner, or god help him, in the bedroom, it could be thrilling. Sherlock’s eyes locked on his, deducing his thoughts, anticipating his desires...intoxicating. Sherlock’s eyes locked on the beehives outside in the garden, not listening to a word John was saying, stalking by a table full of John’s best cooking and John himself, pleased with his own efforts and looking hopeful...ah, bloody hell.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Even after all this time, his anger always got the best of him. He would never change, it seemed, and neither, realistically, would Sherlock. He imagined Sherlock snapping back into reality, looking around and wondering where John had gone. Finding the table laden with lunch, John’s jacket missing, the car gone. He would have heard the door slam. He was probably standing there in the lounge now, looking out the back windows, puzzling over what he’d done now, what had just happened. 

_ Damn it. _ John cleared his throat. “New destination.” The car slowed slightly and beeped three times in a rising, inquisitive pattern. “Home.” At least he’d have a few minutes to craft an apology on the ride.

The car had just completed its U-turn when he saw it out of the window, a few metres back from the roadway--a little quiver of the weeds, the flash of what could have been a dark eye. He turned to look, blinked hard, and yes, right there…”Jesus! Car, stop. Stop!” He hit the override before the car’s momentum had fully stopped and forced the door open, earning the disappointed signal Sherlock always referred to as “Mummy.” John crunched across the rocky shoulder, stepped off into the brush, and stopped short, the toes of his boots just centimetres away from the nose of a puppy, yellow and lean, maybe a few months old, lying on its side. “Oh, hello,” John said, in the calm, cheerful tone he’d perfected on the battlefields of Afghanistan. The dog answered with what John supposed was meant to be a friendly yip. The little body writhed briefly, the legs paddling in the air but gaining no purchase, and John felt his heart sink. The tail, though, long with a black tip, kept wagging, even when the rest of the body stilled.

“Well, now. You’re a good natured little thing, aren’t you.” John didn’t know much about dogs. He’d always rather wanted one, thought he’d enjoy the companionship, but an itinerant childhood had made the idea impractical, and by the time he’d joined the army, he’d let the thought of pet ownership go. Life in the city, first with Sherlock and later with Rosie, had only proven the wisdom of that surrender. He’d liked Jeff, Rosie’s cat, well enough, and had grown to appreciate the wonder of life alongside another species. He’d felt Jeff’s death deeply, though he was still Watson enough to subsume his hurt beneath the feelings of others. He’d fussed over Rosie as much she’d allowed, when she’d visit, with Sherlock a steady presence on the periphery. After some time had passed, it had occurred to John more than once to ask Sherlock if they might not consider a pet of their own, but he’d always swallowed back the words. He couldn’t have said why. 

A quiet whine brought his attention back to the creature at his feet. John crouched down and looked it over. He might not know dogs, exactly, but he knew body systems, and he knew triage, so: the puppy--the patient--was bright, alert, and responsive. Mentation seemed...well, normal, he supposed. No point asking who the prime minister was, at any rate. The pupils were the same size, and the tongue peeking out from what he couldn’t help but think of as a grin was pink. The pup was panting, so assessing respiration would be pointless, but a wagging tail suggested an intact spinal cord, as least. John couldn’t see any obvious wounds, but as he drew in a deep breath, considering his next move, he caught a hint of the metallic scent that meant fresh blood. Even after all these years, that particular smell made his hair stand on end.

He held out one finger for the puppy to sniff. “Mean you no harm, mate,” he murmured, “but I need to flip you over, yeah? I’ll be careful, I promise.” The puppy renewed its wagging and gave John’s finger a brief, eager lick. 

John took a moment to steel himself, pausing briefly to appreciate that there hadn’t been a case of canine rabies in England within the reach of his memory, and then with as much care as he could muster, he rolled the little dog over. 

The source of the odor was immediately apparent, a set of deep gashes set into the puppy’s flank and over his--or was it her? John chanced a quick peek at the lower belly, and yup.  _ His  _ thigh, then. The wounds were deep and jagged, but there was no indication that the body wall had been breached, and it looked as though the dirt of the roadside had mixed with the puppy’s blood to create a kind of coagulant sealant. Lucky pup, John thought, his hand hovering above the cuts, instinctively checking for the heat of inflammation. The situation wasn’t ideal, considering that the wounds were almost certainly infected now, but a course of antibiotics was a definite improvement over bleeding out in the roadside brush. The rear leg on this side was lying at an unnatural angle as well--obviously a fracture there, at least one--and along with multiple other small scrapes and bruises, the very tip had been sheared off of the puppy’s floppy ear. 

John stood and glanced around. No sign of an offending vehicle, or a marauding beast, or of any other living being at all, actually. Only Sherlock’s car sat on the shoulder, the door still thrown open, beeping its litany of indignity and misuse. There was a blanket on the back seat, he knew, a leftover from Mrs Hudson’s most recent visit, and he rose and walked quickly to the car to claim it. The puppy’s wagging escalated as John carefully wrapped the blanket around him, but the whine he gave as John lifted him was unmistakably one of pain. “It’s okay, boy,” John murmured, as he nestled the dog against his chest and turned toward the road. He did his best to keep his stride as level as possible, remembering all too well the pain caused by the jostling of a gurney or helicopter bench under a wounded body. Once he reached the car, he lowered the puppy into the front seat, and the car silenced itself before John could give the command, sensing, perhaps, that now was not the bloody time.

John closed the door and scurried around to the other side. “Destination: home,” he murmured, as he eased his body across the bench seat and carefully lifted the little yellow head with its mangled ear and shining eyes to rest against his thigh. “What have I gotten myself into, I wonder,” he said to the puppy, stroking the soft cheek as he mentally reviewed the contents of his home medical kit. It briefly occurred to him to call ahead to warn Sherlock about his new project, but as he opened his mouth to give the order, the puppy gave his hand a slow, seemingly grateful lick. With a smile, John settled back into the seat, allowing himself a few minutes to just enjoy the company of his new and unexpected companion. 

\---

Sherlock poked at the bundle of blanket and fur. “It’s a...dog,” he said, blinking up at John with a frown. 

John gave a dry chuckle. “Nothing gets by you, genius. Some sort of mixed breed, I think. He’s hurt, though. Found him by the side of the road on the way to the village.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to the car behind them, still going through its shutdown protocol. “You were going to the village.”

John nodded. “Yes.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “To the...bakery?”

John sighed. Sherlock knew that when John was upset, he could often be found at the bakery, engaged in what Rosie called “eating his feelings.” He  _ had  _ noticed John’s pique, then. “Yeah, that’s where I was headed, but…” He gave a slight shrug of one shoulder, doing his best not to disturb his now quiet patient. “Little man here had something else in mind.”

“I see.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, glancing from John’s face to the puppy and back again. He looked confused, tentative, and it occurred to John to wonder if Sherlock thought the dog’s presence represented some kind of punishment. Maybe he  _ should _ have called ahead. He was searching for the right words of reassurance, his mouth just opening when the puppy shifted in his arms and let out a long, sad sound somewhere between a whine and a sigh.

John cuddled the dog in closer. “It’s all right, little man. We’ll get you fixed up here in a few.”

Sherlock scoffed, still carefully maintaining his distance. “His name is  _ not _ Little Man.” He paused. “Is it?”

“Uh, no. No, it’s...he doesn’t have a name, actually. At least not one that I know. No tags or anything.”

“Well, it’s not going to be Little Man. It’s lacking in imagination. I won’t have it under my roof.” Sherlock turned on his heel, toward the cottage. “You’ll be wanting your med kit, I suppose.”

“Hmm, yes, and a towel or two, I think, if we’ve got some clean.” John went to follow him into the house, looking down at the puppy thoughtfully. “There’s a veterinary surgeon in the next town over, isn’t there?”

Sherlock held the door open. “I think so, yes.”

John passed by him, moving quickly to the kitchen and stopping next to the table. “Would you mind calling them and seeing if they’d be willing to consult with me? After you grab the towels, of course.” John eyed the wooden surface critically. “And maybe a sponge, yeah?”

Sherlock sighed but moved toward the sink. “Just got some new ones. Regular cleaning product all right?”

“Fine.” John threw a grateful smile over his shoulder. “Appreciate your help, love. Got my hands full here.”

As if he knew he was the topic of discussion, the puppy gave a single wag of his tail, the black tip just peeking out from the edge of the blanket.

Sherlock made quick work of the table, wiping it down with spray and the sponge, and drying it with a clean tea towel. “All right, John,” he said, solemn, and turned toward the linen cabinet. “The kettle just boiled, so you should have plenty of hot water.”

John cleared his throat. “I’m afraid he’s in quite a bit of pain, Sherlock. I wonder…”

“Really, John,” came Sherlock’s voice from the hallway. “You should know that if the kettle is on, the honey is out.” Sherlock walked back into the kitchen and handed John a towel, setting another on the barstool nearby. “While I call the surgery, I’ll mix up a saucer for him. The rest, I fear, falls to you.”

\---

The veterinary surgeon was a lovely person, genial and warm, who took an hour of their tea time to watch through the camera and advise a nervous but resolute John on canine anatomy and how to clip bloody fur. The fracture repair, of course, couldn’t happen in a kitchen, but he had the supplies on hand for a big, thick Robert Jones bandage, which spared the puppy the pain of his bones rattling about. It was better than nothing. After injecting an effective local anesthetic, John carefully cleaned the dog’s wounds, lavaging with warm saline and wiping with soft, sterile gauze. The torn ear came together nicely, and John neatly sutured the edges of the new silhouette in place. Sherlock held the puppy still as John rummaged through his med kit for a suitable broad spectrum antibiotic. From long habit more than necessity, John didn’t keep narcotics on hand, but he did have some of the more recently developed non-addictive analgesics in a bag in the back of his closet, next to his now idle cane. Some of the meds were unusable--something about liver enzymes, he’d have to look that up--but one was deemed acceptable, and the vet gave John the appropriate dosage and scheduled them for surgery on the broken leg bright and early the next morning. John finally disconnected the call and smiled down at his patient, who was resting peacefully, the effect of a combination of medication, exhaustion, discharged adrenaline, and a belly full of milk and honey. 

“He still needs a name,” Sherlock said from the corner of the kitchen, where he sipped at a cup of tea.

John smoothed a clean towel over the puppy’s body, up to his neck, and plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing at his eyes. “Aren’t you afraid of getting attached? I’m sure he belongs to one of the cottages around here.”

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant half-shrug. “Every creature deserves a name, John.”

“Right, then.” John rested his chin on his hand, smiling as the puppy’s whiskers twitched in his sleep. “Somehow our standard pet name go-to of serial killers doesn’t seem appropriate here.”

“Hmm, no,” Sherlock agreed. “That’s more of a cat thing, I think. They’re the real killers of the animal world. Dogs are more...larcenous. Prone to thievery. Using their sad eyes to get a bite of your sandwich.” 

John swallowed down a smile. “I don’t know that those characteristics are limited to dogs, seeing as how you sad-eyed your way into the remainder of my ice cream last night. But you’re the expert on criminal history, I suppose. Go on.”

“Right.” Sherlock pushed off from the wall, walking over to peer down at the puppy over John’s shoulder. “Well...there was Ronnie Briggs, from the Great Train Robbery. Stole nearly three million quid off the Glasgow to London mail train.”

“Yeah, I know that story. Briggs escaped from jail and was on the run for thirty-six years. He also killed a guy. This dog doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, not even among the broken ones. Try again.”

Sherlock nodded. “Fair enough. Let me think.” He hummed thoughtfully. “How about...Valerio, after Valerio Viccei. Forty million in the Knightsbridge Safe Deposit Centre Robbery. No one was killed in that one. Better?”

John frowned. “That...that was the Ferrari one, yeah? Got picked up when he came back to ship his sports car to South America?”

“Well, yes. How did you know that?”

“Ferrari, Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes. “I was a teenager when that happened. My mates and I were all keenly aware of sports cars. Had a picture of a car like that on my wall.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said gravely. “Fragile masculinity, penile compensation. Common at that age. Must have been especially fraught for you, considering your bisexuality, and…”

John raised his hand abruptly in a ‘stop’ motion, his lips pressed together firmly in an attempt not to laugh. “I’ll have you know,” he mock-growled, “that ‘compensation,’ as you call it, was not and never has been an issue for me.  _ Never. _ And you, of all people, should know that. Now. Moving on.”

Sherlock blinked at him, eyes wide. He shifted where he stood, as if he was remembering exactly how adequate John’s anatomy had been the night prior. “Of...of course, John. Let’s see.” He swallowed. “Well, there’s...there’s Basil.”

“Basil,” John echoed. “Basil who?”

“No one knows. He was one of the perpetrators of the Hatton Garden jewelry heist, Easter weekend back in 2015. Safe deposit company in the jewelry district of Hatton Garden. Turned out to be a gang of elderly gentlemen. Astonishing that they pulled it off, really.”

“Hey, now,” John interjected. “I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘experienced.’ Watch who you’re calling elderly there, Pot.”

“No insult intended to elderly gents, of course, Kettle,” Sherlock said with a small bow. “They drilled through 50cm walls with a diamond tip drill. Managed to collect around two hundred million quid worth of jewels and gold.”

“In 2015 money? Wow,” John said, nodding. “Impressive. And Basil?”

“They only had video back then, of course,” Sherlock said. “No 4D scanners, no aerosol DNA. The ringleader was referred to on tape by the other perpetrators as Basil. They arrested a man two or three years later, caught him with some of the goods. Name was Michael Seed. Seemed like an open and shut case, but he claimed he was innocent.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” John asked. “Only they always do.”

“True, but still. Do you remember the case? It was all over the papers.”

John squinted with concentration. “Vaguely, maybe.” Sherlock gave an indignant huff. “Well, there was a lot going on in 2015, wasn’t there? Perhaps you remember.”

John watched as Sherlock’s face fell. He still had nightmares about that day on the tarmac, about Sherlock’s head lolling against the leather seat back in Mycroft’s private jet and Sherlock’s thready pulse twitching against his fingertips. “Oh. Right,” Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Basil. Seed died in 2024 and after his funeral, an anonymous letter in the Times claimed that Seed had only been a fence, and the writer was the real mastermind. He included a map to a spot in Hampstead Heath where he claimed the rest of the loot was buried.” Sherlock smiled, and his eyes went a bit dreamy. “Actually, we went by there, do you recall? Someone at the Times had tipped the Met off about the letter. One of my network happened to be out front of the Yard and texted me about the massive rollout. Even with the head start, the coppers barely beat the crowd. Mycroft was there, I remember, representing His Majesty’s concern in the matter; some lesser royal had lost some emeralds in the original theft, or something. They finally found the site, and poor Lestrade ended up with mud up to his elbows. Got most of the jewels back to the original owners, but they never did figure out who’d made the call. Legendary cheek, there.”

“I do remember that. Ha. Mycroft demanded an audience with Lestrade, and Lestrade refused to wash first. That limousine ended up looking like a quarry.” John turned back toward the puppy, who was resting in a frankly impossible sprawl. “What do you think, then, Basil?”

Basil slumbered on, and John smiled down at him, tracing one finger down the soft yellow cheek. Sherlock stayed over in the kitchen, watching them both.

\---

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, but John greeted it at the front door of the red brick building that housed the veterinary surgeon’s practice. He handed Basil over, feeling like one of those red bricks had settled in his stomach, and went out to wander the town. A tech called an hour and a half later to advise him that they hadn't found a tracking chip, and that Basil was recovering nicely. John deliberately chose to believe that the wave of relief he felt was over the latter piece of news, and not the former. The fracture had been complex, but the surgeon knew their stuff, and after a quick lunch at a local pub and a run by the shops for kibble and a collar and leash, John collected the groggy puppy and paid the bill, with a promise to stand the vet a pint as soon as their schedules allowed. Sherlock had a dish of milk and honey waiting, and John smiled to see it, though Sherlock himself was in the back garden, tromping about in mud and mulch. The humans had a quick supper of leftover stew, and while Sherlock looked curiously at the radiographs the surgeon had sent over, John set up a little recovery area in the downstairs guest room.

John had read that young animals heal quickly, much like human children, but he was still stunned by how quickly Basil recovered. The next morning, he met John with a wagging tail and a good appetite; four hours later, John heard the thump of a cast on the wood floor, and turned to find a small black nose sniffing hopefully around the corner of the kitchen cabinet. By dinner time, John had been forced to block the downstairs hallway with a row of chairs. Sherlock kept plying Basil with milk and honey on a regular schedule, and John beamed at him every time. Still, there was no denying that Basil’s tail wagged that much harder when John walked into the room.

“How’s the pup?” Sherlock asked two mornings later, as John stepped over the chairs and back into the lounge.

“He’s a pain in my arse,” John said, smiling, accepting a cup of tea. “My favourite type of patient, in other words. You’d know about that, I think.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, giving him a quick wink. “Well, I’ve read that pets start to take after their owners in time. It’s only fair he picks up my personality, since he got your colouring. Oh, and your appetite, if we’re being honest.”

“Well, if he picks up your personality, I swear I will...wait.” John blinked, rewinding the conversation in his mind. “Pets? Owners?” He lowered his voice, as though the puppy might hear. “Listen, I’m not sure…”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, giving him a look. “He’s your dog. You found him, and you saved him. Don’t be obtuse.”

“But…”

“No. I refuse to debate this.”

John dropped onto the sofa. “Look, I’m sure I can find him a home. He’s...you know. Cute. Cuddly. And I didn’t mean to go and do something like this without your permission.”

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t need my permission to do anything.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Seriously, why are we arguing about this? Do you want this dog?”

“Well…” John looked over toward the hallway, a fond smile coming to his lips. “Maybe. Yeah, I guess I do. But…”

Sherlock looked closer. “You’re worried about...my history, aren’t you. Redbeard.”

“Um...a bit. Yes. I don’t want this to hurt you.” 

“You’re going to have to trust me on this, John. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

John took his turn at looking closer. Sherlock really did seem, well, fine, his usual unperturbed self. “Okay. But...do you like him?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m not immune to the charm of a puppy. And he’s been yours since the moment you found him, so let’s just end this charade of indecision and admit we have a dog.”

John realised the decision had been made long ago. “We do, don’t we.”

_ “Yes.” _ Sherlock nodded once, emphatically. “He’ll need training, though, and exercise and such. I’m afraid that’s on you. I’ve got my work cut out for me with the bees.”

“It’s fine. He’s my project.”

John heard the thump of the cast again, the tap tap tap of the black-tipped tail against the wall. Sherlock rose and looked down over the row of chairs.

“I must say, he is...cute.”

John rose and walked over to stand next to him, looking down fondly at the little body vibrating from the vigorous motion of his wagging tail. “Yes, I rather think so.”

\---


	2. Out and About

Basil disappeared two days after the cast came off.

John had been out with him in the back garden, playing a game of fetch that resembled more of a ball being thrown followed by a wrestling match, when he’d gotten a call from his solicitor. He wasn’t inside for more than three minutes, but when he came back out, the little dog was gone. The gate on the side of the house had been pushed open, and muddy pawprints led toward the field next to the house.

Sherlock checked with the neighbours on either side of them, and then, grabbing his binoculars, wandered off in a tangential direction, muttering about vectors and the potential speed of a four-legged fugitive. John took the more direct route, searching under every bush and tree, slogging through the tall grass, calling constantly and shaking the pup’s bag of kibble. He did his best to keep the memories of his search for Jeff the cat and that sad ending at bay and just kept looking, and calling, and hoping that the pup avoided the roadway this time.

Just before sunset, Sherlock came home and ran upstairs for a warmer jacket and his pocket torch, while John was in the kitchen, throwing back a bottle of water. Sherlock had just reappeared downstairs when they both heard the rumble of a car on the gravel of their driveway. Sherlock paused to listen for a bare second before starting for the front door. “That’s Nelson, from the farm out behind us,” he said, reaching for the doorknob.

Nelson was indeed standing on the porch, blinking in surprise at the abrupt opening of the door. His arms were full of a wriggly, grinning Basil. 

“Well, hello there, Nelson,” John said, slipping by Sherlock to grab the mesh collar and leash from the hook next to the door. “I see you found our escapee.” He slipped the collar around the dog’s neck, and Nelson flopped him to the ground. “Awfully kind of you to bring him home. Hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Oh, not at all,” Nelson said, smiling down at the puppy. “I’m only sorry it took us so long to get him home. He showed up in my back garden about lunch time, you know. My grandchildren were visiting from town, so he couldn’t have picked a better day for it. Friendly little thing, your pup. They all played together for hours. I was worried he might chase the cat, but honestly his heart didn’t seem in it. He just wanted to play with the kids.” He bent over and patted the dog on the head, groaned his way back to standing. “Their parents send their thanks, by the way. Apparently the kids were asleep before they hit the highway.”

“But how did you figure out he lived here?” John asked, and heard Sherlock huff beside him.

“The scar,” Sherlock said.

“Just so,” Nelson said. “Saw him all shaved up and the wife finally thought to call the vet’s in town. When they heard about that black spot, they knew who it was right away.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s a violation of privacy law,” Sherlock muttered.

“Shut up,” John said through his teeth. He offered Nelson a genuine smile. “Well, we’re ever so grateful.” He hesitated. “Would you...would you care to join us for a drink? Warm you up a bit?”

“It’s twelve degrees out here,” Sherlock said incredulously.

Nelson’s broad smile grew broader. “Well, that sounds right nice. Just the one, mind. The wife is putting supper on.”

“That’s twice now. Does your wife have a name?” 

John drove his elbow into Sherlock’s side. “Well, come on in then, Nelson. I’ve got some sherry, I think, or a lovely bourbon if you’re so inclined.”

“Oh, I’m quite inclined.”

After Nelson left, two bourbons down and with a merry glow to his cheeks, John slumped on the sofa. Basil trotted over and sat at his feet, giving John his usual look of adoration. “Gave us a scare tonight, little man,” John said, holding the pup’s chin with one hand and smoothing over his head with the other. “I’ll thank you not to go walkabout like that again.”

Sherlock walked over and handed John a plate with a sandwich and some crisps. “Nelson seemed pleasant enough, I suppose,” he said, settling down beside John with his own plate. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into him more often.”

“Yeah, well,” John said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Only we don’t get out that much, do we.” He swallowed. “We should invite them over sometime. It’s nice to know the neighbours.”

Sherlock shot him a quick look. “If you like,” he answered carefully. “We could have them over for tea next week. I’ve got a honey roasted pork recipe I’ve been wanting to try.”

“Lovely.” John slipped the dog a crisp and ruffled his ears. “How about it, Basil? You up for some company? Be a nice change, what?”

Basil wagged his approval. Sherlock watched them for a long moment before slipping quietly upstairs.

\---

Three weeks later, Basil disappeared again. Just after waking up, John had let him out into the back garden to “see to his biology,” as Sherlock put it, but Basil wasn’t there five minutes later, when John went to call for him. They’d put padlocks on all of the gates since the last misadventure, but Basil apparently climbed the chain link, a feat John considered both impressive and bloody inconvenient. He considered it even more inconvenient when, only an hour of search time later, a storm broached the horizon and it started to rain.

Sherlock went inside and started placing calls to all the neighbours in a carefully calculated radius that grew wider as the day passed. John pulled on his rain boots and jacket, grabbed his pocket torch, and headed out back into the cold and wet afternoon. As evening approached, the weather grew even worse, and finally, despairing, he turned for home.

John was slumped on the porch, staring at his muddy feet, when Sherlock brought him a cup of tea and a piece of gingerbread and settled in gracefully beside him. 

John took a sip of his tea. “Nothing?”

“No. I called everyone within five miles of this house. Called the village police too, and they checked the roadsides. No one has seen him, or if they have, they aren’t talking. John, maybe...maybe he went home this time.”

John sighed. “Yeah. I was thinking that too.”

“We can look again tomorrow. He’s a clever little thing. If he’s still out there, I’m sure he’s found some shelter.” Sherlock squinted out into the rain. “Looks like the rain has stopped, but it’s going to start up again in a while, judging by those clouds. I’m going to run into the village and get what we need for tea.”

John sighed his acceptance. “What’s for supper, then?”

“Comfort food seems in order, I think. Shepherd’s pie? And maybe a stop by the bakery for some apple cobbler for pudding.”

“Sounds delightful.” John drained his mug. “You go on, then. I’ll use the loo and then...just keep splashing around the yard, I guess. Maybe he’s trying to find his way back and he’ll hear me.”

John pulled his boots back on with a sense of futility. He had only just reached the road when he heard the sound of Sherlock’s car returning much sooner than he’d expected, driving quickly enough on the wet roads to have required an override. He frowned and turned to head back to the house, reaching the driveway just in time to see Sherlock emerging from the front seat with his arms full of soggy, wiggly puppy. The black tip on Basil’s tail was a shadowy blur.

John reached in his pocket for the dog’s collar and leash, laughing as he attempted and failed to avoid Basil’s joyful tongue. “The little blighter was holding court at the butcher’s,” Sherlock said as he lowered Basil to the ground with an  _ oof. _ Basil immediately started rolling around at John’s feet, his entire body aquiver with apparent joy at their reunion. “They had a cooking demonstration today. Quite popular, apparently, they hold it every year. I found him just sitting at the front door. Roger said he’d been there most of the day. Not coming in, just sitting by the entry, greeting one and all. Said he was going to offer him a bone at the end of the day for the excellent customer service.”

“Is that so. Not feeding you enough, are we, Basil?” John asked, kneeling down and ruffling the dog’s ears. “Doing your own shopping now?”

Sherlock hummed. “That’s the interesting thing, actually. Roger said he didn’t seem interested so much in the food as the company. He said he wouldn’t turn down a bit of a treat when offered, but otherwise, he seemed quite content to just, you know. Wag at people.”

“Huh.” John shook his head and pushed to standing, smiling down at Basil. “Well, I’m glad you’re back, you little bastard.” He glanced up at Sherlock. “Did you get everything you needed?”

“Mostly. We’ll have to forgo the cobbler. I can make biscuits later.”

John was smiling back down at Basil. “Sounds perfect. I’ll run by the butcher’s tomorrow, give Roger my thanks.”

After supper, John and Basil settled in before the fire, John with his hand resting on Basil’s napping head. He alternated between watching the flicker of the fire and the raging of the storm outside, but every once in a while he looked over to the kitchen to see Sherlock watching them from over his journals, a troubled crease in his brow. He didn’t think too much about it. Sherlock took his beekeeping seriously.

\---

Sherlock was gone the next morning when John blinked awake, and his pillow was cool to the touch. A cup of tea was steaming in the warmer, though, and a note on the counter read “Back soon” in Sherlock’s scratchy text, a tiny, could-be-accidental X in the corner. John smiled at the note, picked up his cup of tea, grabbed a biscuit and headed for the back garden with Basil, whom he watched like the proverbial hawk.

Sherlock came back midmorning with a parcel, which he handed to John as he walked into the kitchen.

“What’s this, then?” John opened the package. “A new collar, but hang on…” He squinted at the label. “A GPS tracker? Really?”

Sherlock nodded. “Built into the material, like the ankle bracelets they used to use for house arrest back before the tracking web went live. Virtually indestructible, I’m told, though I have been personally acquainted with a few criminals who might beg to argue. The clasp is guaranteed to be unbreakable, too. I ordered a scannable tag, but those take a few days, apparently.” He came back into the lounge with two cups of tea, and handed one to John. “I’ve also been thinking that we need to start walking with him daily. I believe the phrase is ‘wear him out.’ Make him too tired to want to run off.”

John swallowed a smile. “You’ve been doing research.”

“Of course.” Sherlock sipped his tea. “To be fair, though, a lot of what’s out there is rubbish. I’m not sure Basil’s problem is an excess of energy so much as it is just a natural curiosity. He’s a clever creature, after all. I’m sure he gets bored just like the rest of us.”

“Well, now, Basil, did you hear that? High praise from your father.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“I’m game for the walking, but I don’t know about this collar.” John weighed it in his hand. “It seems a bit heavy.”

“Nonsense. He’s young and strong. It will be fine.”

An hour later, in the front garden, John knelt down in front of Basil and clicked on the new collar. Basil took two steps, shook his head, then flopped onto his side, looking up at them pathetically. 

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared down at him, but John just stifled a laugh. “We’ll keep working on it. Maybe we’ll get all the way to the street tomorrow.”

“Fine. But leave the collar on, he’ll get used to it.”

\---

The collar was lying open on the front mat the next morning, but Basil was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock stared down at the collar as though it personally offended him, which, John thought, it probably did. “So much for the unbreakable clasp,” John said. “I’ll get dressed.”

“I’ll check the village,” Sherlock said, still scowling at the collar.

John was on the sofa, pulling on his boots, when the call came through. The name on the monitor was unfamiliar. 

“Answer. Hello, John Watson here.”

The monitor flickered, and a shadowy picture came into view: a man’s face, too close to the camera, and behind him, an impression of dark wood and lots of jostling, loud people. 

“Is that Doctor Watson?” the man asked. “I manage a pub in town, The Green Jacket. Name’s Bob Lathrop. I think I have your dog? Friendly sort, black tip on ‘is tail.”

John sighed. “Yes, that sounds like him. How did you know to call me?”

“Oh.” Bob waved his thick hand. “The vet’s my neighbour. Rang them up. They didn’t seem too surprised to hear he was here, truth to tell.”

“Yeah. He’s a bit of a wanderer, is Basil. Listen, my partner has the car. As soon as he gets home, we’ll be right over. Can you just keep him close? So sorry for the bother.”

“Oh, it’s no bother at all!” Bob laughed. “It’s the annual darts tournament today, innit, and he seems right happy to be here. Plopped himself down right in the middle of it, like he’s holding court. Hey, everyone!” He turned to yell over his shoulder. “Pup’s name is Basil! Did anyone have that in the pool?” The crowd sent up a wave of sound, a combination of cheers and groans, and Bob turned back to the camera, laughing. “I had Alfie, myself. Couple of the lads gave him chips, hope that’s all right.”

“Just a few is fine. But...he’s just sitting there?”

“Aye. One of the ladies won a round after she patted ‘im on the head and now everyone says he’s good luck. Looks like he’s about ready to order a pint and take a go himself.”

“Well, Bob, at this point, nothing this dog does would surprise me. I’m grateful to you. See you soon.”

Barely fifteen minutes later, John drove to town, turning Basil’s collar over in his hands as a theory took shape in his mind. The parking lot around the little brick building was full, but he found a place to park on the crowded streets and was just approaching the entrance when Basil came running out, panting with joy. He accepted the collar without argument and bounded off back toward the building and into the crowd, looking back every few steps and giving a bright bark. 

John shook hands with Bob Lathrop and a few of the customers, Basil staying close by his side the entire while. Bob hadn’t been kidding; several of the players seemed to consider Basil their personal talisman, and John gave in to genial social pressure and decided to stay for a while. The pub was bright and buzzing, packed with happy drinkers all supporting their favourite players, glad to take a break for a few minutes of gentle teasing or easy chatter. After some time, John announced he and Basil were standing the entire pub a round, earning himself a few more handshakes and back slaps, and Basil a few more ear rubs. They left an hour later, John pleasantly full of companionship and lager. Basil jumped into the front seat of the car without hesitation, his tail wagging as the car pulled into the driveway of the cottage. 

Two mornings later, the collar was again on the mat, and Basil was again nowhere to be found.

Sherlock sighed and started pulling on his coat, but John just walked over and sat on the sofa. “Computer,” John said. “Community schedule within five kilometres.” The monitor beeped and began to display a list of activities, and John hummed as he scanned it while Sherlock watched, nonplussed.

“That one,” John said, pointing to a line on the screen. “Call, please.” The speaker clicked, and the number dialed through. 

“Village Community Centre,” a voice answered. “This is Kevin.”

“Good morning, Kevin. This is Doctor Watson at the Winter Garden cottage. You’re hosting a garden show today, aren’t you?”

“We are! It’s quite a popular event. We’re expecting several hundred visitors. Can I help you with something? Ticket sales?”

“Not right now, no. This might seem a strange question, but...is there a yellow puppy at the gate?”

“Ha ha! As a matter of fact, there is.” 

Sherlock, his coat still halfway to his shoulders, gave an incredulous laugh, but John just held up a hand to silence him. “Black tip on his tail?” he asked.

“The very same! Thought he belonged to one of the vendors, he’s so well behaved. Just sitting there, like he’s, I don’t know, an ambassador or something. What’s his name?”

Sherlock’s mouth was hanging open. John shot him a quick wink. “We call him Basil.”

“Basil? Like the herb? Ha ha! Excellent! No wonder he’s fitting in so well with the gardeners. He’s yours, then?”

John stood up and started walking to the door. “I’m not sure, actually. He seems to be something of a citizen of the world. But he lives in my house, so I’m on my way.”

“Ha ha! Not a problem, we’ll keep an eye on him. Doesn’t seem inclined to be moving on anyway. We’ll see you soon, then?”

“I’m leaving now. Should be just a few minutes.”

“Excellent. Drive safely, Doctor.”

The phone disconnected just as John reached for the doorknob. Sherlock followed close behind him out onto the porch. “John? What’s going on?”

John stopped at the car and turned with a smile on his face. “It’s only an idea I’ve had, and it might sound crazy, but...I think our dog is a socialite, Sherlock. A dog about town. Sniffs out a party, and won’t be denied.” He chuckled, rubbing at his mouth. “Reminds me of my sister, actually.”

“A party,” Sherlock said, sceptically. “But the village is…”

“Miles away, yes. He’s a determined little bugger.” John tapped the top of the car, and the door popped open. “Never thought I’d be a dog’s chauffeur, but there are worse fates, I suppose.”

Sherlock was watching him closely. “You...like this. You admire this behaviour. This...aberration.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but…” John shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed talking with the neighbours, meeting some new people. I didn’t even know that pub was there until Basil dragged me to it. It’s been, well, you know. Nice. Fun, even, getting out a bit.”

“I see.” Sherlock’s face closed off, and he took a step back. “Well. You’d best be going.”

John frowned and turned to face him fully. “Have I upset you?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “Of course not.”

“Hmm. Protesting too much there, I think.” John took another step closer. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock made a little _ ugh _ noise, but did not step away. “Just go get the bloody dog, John.”

“Not going anywhere.” John shook his head and walked up even closer, until their chests were nearly touching.  _ “Sherlock.” _

Sherlock sighed down at him. “You’re such a stubborn bastard,” he said with fondness, then looked off over John’s head into the distance. John had the sense he was weighing his words carefully. “I don’t like this feeling I’ve had lately, that you’ve been trying to...escape. Me, I mean. I...I’ve never meant to keep you locked up here, John. It doesn’t occur to me to go out and see…” Sherlock waved in the general direction of the village. “I don’t mind it, you know, it just never crosses my mind. I don’t feel the need to leave. You’re enough for me.” He swallowed. “Always have been, really.”

John blinked up into his face. “Oh, you silly man,” he murmured. He leaned his forehead into Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock raised one hand to his back, pressing him that much closer. “You’re enough for me, too, Sherlock. Almost more than enough some days, Christ.” He lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “But you have your bees, and your garden, and your thoughts. Which is fine, of course. Better than fine, actually. I’m happy relaxing with a book or movie while you’re buzzing about.”

“There’s no place in this cottage for bee jokes,” Sherlock interjected.

“Shut up,” John said, smiling. “I’m telling you that I’m happy here. Content. And that’s a gift I never thought I’d have in this life.”

Sherlock rubbed his hand up and down his back. “But…”

“But.” John nodded. “I just like a pint and a chin wag every once in a while. New stories to think through, to bring home. Different words, different thoughts. Fresh perspectives.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’re talking about friends,” he said, the last word sounding something like a curse word.

John hummed. “Yeah, I guess so.” He reached up and took Sherlock’s chin to hold him still, looked directly into his eyes. “But, listen carefully now. Along with everything else you are to me, you’re also my best friend. And if they came to me tomorrow and said I absolutely had to pick, that I could have only one, you’d be it, no question, no hesitation. All right?”

“All right.” A smile broke across Sherlock’s face. He leaned his head down to kiss John’s hand. “But...more is better.”

“Well, yeah. I’m a greedy bastard. You know that.” John eased his grip, caressing one side of Sherlock’s jaw. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised you were worried about this.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I wouldn’t say I was  _ worried,” _ he said, as his shoulders eased. “You’re off to a garden show, then.” His gaze drifted to the riotous vines of roses along the side fence.

“Why, you tempted?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “I’ve gotten a few requests, you know, neighbours wanting tips and the like. I’m pretty sure that with a single box of cuttings we could get you enough friends for a lifetime and a waiting list besides. Just say the word.”

John looked up at him, touched. Sherlock was always generous with his honey, but extremely protective of his plants. “That’s kind of you, love. But no, thanks. I think I rather fancy a peaceful day at home with my best friend.” John gave him a quick kiss. “But first I’ve got to go get the damn dog.”

“If you must.” Sherlock returned the kiss and stepped back. “I’ll bookmark the community calendar, then, shall I?”

John turned to walk to the car. “Probably best.”

\---


	3. Home

The next day dawned bright and sunny. John and Basil stepped onto the stoop and as Basil sniffed the air, John gave a great, yawning stretch. Then, John reached down and unhooked Basil’s leash. Basil cocked his head and looked up at him.

John gestured to the countryside around them. “Lead the way, old man.”

Basil wagged his tail, yipped once, and immediately took off to the west, stopping every few metres to look back at John as if in encouragement. 

John was exhausted by the end of the day, but he had collected two invitations for tea, one hunk of surprisingly good cheese from a local dairy hidden on the backroads, and a bottle of homemade wine from a villager who grew grapes in his own back garden. Sherlock shredded the cheese for their pasta and they sipped at the wine after supper as John told of their explorations and the almost too-friendly Border Collie who’d left off trying to herd some squirrels to them to the dairy.

The next three weeks were a whirlwind of new acquaintances, invitations to dinner, tastes of homebrewed beer and delicious baking. Sherlock went along on days when the bees “could be trusted to see to themselves,” days that John noted tended to be when the weather was particularly fine. Together, they made the acquaintance of a retired constable from Scotland who told great stories, and a lovely couple of retired British Navy officers who engaged in friendly smack-down military talk with John while their English bulldog taught Basil the tragic art of lifting one’s leg on bushes and tyres. Now freely offered the twin pleasures of exploration and companionship, Basil seemed to sense when John was tired or wanted a day home with Sherlock and would settle down on the sofa after breakfast, but otherwise he leapt off the stoop every morning in a burst of joy, eager to lead them on their next great adventure. 

Two weeks later, on one of those quiet days at home, John was stretched out on the sofa, Basil by his side, when he heard a car rumble up the drive. Sherlock had gone off to the village; they had a dinner planned later with a garrulous sheep farmer who’d taught Basil how to dance on his hind legs, an act that never failed to put Sherlock on the ground in fits of laughter, and Sherlock had wanted to pick up a special bottle of whiskey as a gift of thanks.

John stepped out onto the porch. The car, an older hand-driven model, idled for a long moment before the driver’s side window slid down. 

“Dr Watson?” 

John lifted his eyebrows. “Who’s asking?”

The driver’s side door opened, and a woman, dark haired, in a neat but dated coat, stepped out. She stopped to turn and mumble to someone in the car behind her, and John, squinting, could make out two small heads. 

She closed the door and turned to walk up to John, stopping a polite distance away. “My name is Beatrice Pascoe, Doctor. Nice to meet you at last.” She looked around with an air of caution. “Sorry, but is that tall man home?”

“Not right now,” John said, shaking his head. “Is this about a case? He’s retired now, you know.”

“A...what? No, it’s just...I’ve come by a couple of times, but he’s, well, rather chased me off.” She blinked up at him, giving him a nervous smile before taking another look around the front yard. “He’s quite...imposing.”

“Terrifying, you mean. Yeah, he can be when he wants to be.” John crossed his arms and looked her over; there was nothing threatening about her that he could see. “But why did he chase you off?”

“Right.” Beatrice took a deep breath. “Well. The kids and I live on the other side of town, out by the water. I heard from Terrance down at the chess club--he’s my cousin--that you had a yellow dog that likes to run around town and all that, and...it sounded a lot like the puppy we had back a few months ago.”

“Oh,” John said quietly, his stomach dropping. It was no wonder Sherlock had chased her off, he thought. 

“He was a gift from my father to the boys, you see,” Beatrice continued. “Got him from a friend of a friend. I wasn’t too sure about it, honestly. Our place isn’t, um, very big. Nothing like--” She motioned toward the cottage and the property. “But the boys loved him, you know? And then, my father…” The woman looked away, bit her lip, sniffed. “Anyway, the pup was all they had of him then, and we did our best to make it work. But the thing was…” She chuckled, once, through her tears. “He was such a social little thing. Just had to be around people. Jumped the fence until we made it taller, and then he started digging under it. He always came back until…”

“Until he didn’t,” John said softly. He took a closer look at her then: frayed cuffs, worn boots, no wedding ring, tired creases around her eyes. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he could see her life clearly: a small, rented row house close to family, in case she needed help; long days at work, worrying over the bills, the house, and her boys, who kept growing, needing more food, a place to play, and her resources already stretched to the limit. That fence had been made taller with cardboard, he knew, or plywood taken from a pallet they found at the docks.

She wiped at her eyes. “He managed to get out one morning when the kids were heading out for school, and we did what we always did, called all the neighbours, but no one had seen him this time. Searched for days, we did, but finally, we had to give up. Kids were heartbroken, but we told them that maybe he just found a new family to love.” She looked over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “To tell you the truth, we thought a car had gotten him. I know the new ones are programmed to dodge animals, but you never know, do you.”

“No,” John sighed. “No, you don’t.”

Beatrice looked down at the ground. “I wouldn’t bother you, sir, but the kids miss him so much. They called him Spot, because…”

“He had a black spot on his tail. Right?” John looked at her face, tired but hopeful, looked over her shoulder at the two bright, curious faces watching their discussion through the windscreen. There wasn’t even a decision to be made. “I think you’d better come inside. All of you.” 

Basil was waiting just inside the door, and he nearly exploded with joy as John ushered the family inside. The kids were on their knees before they had even cleared the doorway, their arms around Basil’s neck, and Basil’s tongue was licking their beaming faces almost as quickly as his tail was wagging. John looked to Beatrice, only to find her crying again as she watched the scene. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at her cheeks. “It’s just...it’s been a hard year. I haven’t seen them laugh in...”

“It’s all right,” John interrupted gently. “Let me make you a cup of tea while these young men get reacquainted.” 

Beatrice nodded gratefully and followed him inside. “I’m not here to take the pup back from you,” she said, watching him fill the kettle. “We just really wanted to know he was all right. Only if we could visit now and then?”

John turned and held up a hand. “He’s your dog. You’ll be taking him home, and I won’t hear another word about it. We’ll have our tea, and then I’ll gather up his toys and food and his leash for you. You’ll get settled, and I’ll come out next week to see about that fence. Okay?”

Beatrice started sobbing in earnest, but managed a thank you.

“Not a problem. Now. Can I offer you a spot of honey for your tea?” He dipped his chin to catch her eye and winked. “The cottage is known for it.”

\---

John was sitting at the table on the patio in the back garden, staring out at nothing much at all, when Sherlock found him an hour later.

“There you are.” Sherlock looked around the back garden. “Is Basil off for the afternoon, then?”

“Yes.” John was surprised his voice was as even as it was. “But not just for the afternoon.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “John?”

John sighed, still looking out at the flowers. “Basil’s real name is Spot, and Spot has gone home.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around toward the gate, as though he could see through to the front driveway. “That  _ woman,” _ he growled. “I thought I noticed new tyre tracks.”

John finally looked up at Sherlock, who was standing stiffly now, indignant fists on his hips. “You didn’t really think I was going to keep him from his family, did you?”

_ _ "You’re his family,” Sherlock insisted.  _ “We’re _ his family.”

John shook his head. “Those boys were hurting, Sherlock. And that poor mother.”

“You could have just given them some honey,” Sherlock said. At John’s look, he sighed. “Oh, you did that, too.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock just shook his head. “You’re a better man than I, John Watson.”

John started to laugh, but after a moment, was surprised to find himself crying instead. Sherlock knelt in front of him, eyes full of concern.

“I’m all right. It’s fine,” John said, wiping his eyes. “I’ll just miss him, is all.”

“I know.” Sherlock placed one hand on John’s knee. “I will too, I think.”

John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, and squeezed. “He loved you.”

“He loved you more,” Sherlock answered. “Would...would you like another dog? Harrington down at the library has a bitch that...”

“I knew you’d suggest that,” John interrupted. “But I don’t know that I’m up for it, honestly. Basil was...you know. Special somehow.”

“Because you fought for him, you were invested in him.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, maybe. But he’ll be happy with those boys.”

“If you say so,” Sherlock said. He sighed “Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, even in the bloody cast...he  _ was _ an energetic little bugger.”

John laughed. “He was, Christ. It was hard to keep up with him.”

“And it’s getting to be summer,” Sherlock said. “I’d rather not see you sunburnt and dehydrated all the time.” He pushed to standing. “I’ll cancel dinner. We can stay home tonight. You can pick a horrible movie, and...” 

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ve been looking forward to it.” John stood and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Life does go on, you know.”

“True. And you’ve all these new friends now. You’ll not want for society, I don’t think.” Sherlock took John’s shoulders. “That dog was lucky you found him that day.”

“He was lucky you pissed me off that morning,” John said, reaching up to take his wrists, smiling. 

“He was lucky it was a day ending in ‘Y,’ then,” Sherlock answered. He smiled back down at John. “He walks this earth better for having known you. We have that in common.”

John blinked, touched. “Sentiment, Mr Holmes?”

“A bit, maybe.” Sherlock shrugged. “An aberration. Don’t get used to it. Tea?” 

John nodded and took his hand, and they walked into the house together.

\---

Despite Sherlock’s kindness, and the warm conviviality of their dinner host, the house seemed empty that night when they came home. John teared up an hour later when he found one recently-chewed slipper in the bottom of his closet. He saw that Sherlock noticed, but was kind enough not to mention it. A new pair of slippers had replaced the old ones by noon the next day.

A month passed. John talked to the neighbours, met friends at the pub and at the bakery, but still sighed to see the empty bed next to the fireplace, the abandoned chew toy in the back garden. Sherlock was solicitous, offering tea and biscuits at regular intervals, making John’s favourite dishes for supper. John was surprised to feel the puppy’s absence so much, but he told himself that, like most things, it would pass with time.

Early one morning, John was awakened by the sound of scratching at the front door. A gentle whine got him up out of his warm bed and into his new slippers. Sherlock was just beginning to stir when John slipped out of the bedroom and down the stairs. 

Basil was standing just outside the door, tail wagging wildly.

John grinned widely to see him. “Oh, you little bastard,” he said, dropping to his knees to ruffle the dog’s ears. “You don’t live here anymore, young chap. I’m going to have to go call your…”

The monitor beeped from the kitchen. 

“...mother.” John stood and tilted his head toward the door. “Well, go on, then. Sherlock still has some treats in his side table, don’t let him lie and tell you otherwise.” They clattered into the kitchen, and Basil immediately turned left toward the staircase. “Answer.”

Beatrice’s smiling face popped up on the monitor. “Good morning, Dr Watson. I mentioned your name this morning, and Spot turned and ran for the door. I’m guessing he’s with you by now?”

“Indeed. He’s just run upstairs. Sticking his cold nose under the covers, I’ll wager.” A surprisingly high pitched human yelp from upstairs confirmed his suspicions, and both John and Beatrice laughed. “Sorry. I’ll have him back to you within the hour.”

“Oh, don’t you bother. I’m headed out that way, I’ll fetch him.”

Behind him, John heard the tapping of nails on the wooden stairs. He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling at the recently missed sound. “Well, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Haven’t had my tea yet.”

“Well, actually…” A sly tone crept into her voice. “It might be a few hours until I get out there, now that I think of it. Got a few things need doing first. Would that be all right?”

John looked down at the puppy, now nearly grown, wagging and panting at his feet, eyes full of love. He knelt down and rubbed his ears.

“Of course, He’s welcome any time.”

“Splendid. I’ll keep you posted. I did hear there’s a seniors’ cricket match out at the village fields, if that’s something that would interest you. Looks like a nice day for a walk.”

“Ah.” The light dawned. “And where did you hear about this cricket match?”

“Can’t remember, really. Might have heard the kids talking about it.”

“Kids follow the seniors’ cricket circuit, do they?” John shook his head. “You all think you’re so clever.”

“Who’s clever?” Sherlock said behind him, and when John turned, he found him smiling, dressed for a walk and holding out Basil’s leash.

\---

A few weeks later, early on a Tuesday morning, John was sitting in the lounge, enjoying a cup of tea and a rather excellent scone. The monitor chirped with an incoming call. “Answer,” he said, brushing crumbs off his jumper as Rosie’s smiling face came into view. 

“Dad! Sorry to call so early. Only got a minute, but wanted to check in. Going to be in London next week. Any chance you and the great detective could come up for tea? Mrs Hudson said either Tuesday or Wednesday would work.”

“I think you mean  _ greatest  _ detective,” Sherlock said as he leaned in from the kitchen. “Better make it Wednesday, Rosie,” he said as he waggled his fingers in greeting. 

“Oh?” Rosie looked between them. “Got big plans up there in the retirement village?” she asked, with a teasing lilt.

John patted his lips with a serviette. “Well, next week. Let’s see. Nothing too out of the normal,” he answered blandly. “Book club in the morning, birdwatchers’ luncheon in the village, and then, if I remember correctly, I’ve a watercolour class in the afternoon.”

“Pastels, John,” Sherlock called back from the pantry.

“Ah, my mistake. I’ve a  _ pastels _ class in the afternoon.” John took a sip of his tea. “So. See you next Wednesday, then?”

Rosie blinked. “What the hell, Dad. Book club? Watercolours?”

“Pastels. Whatever. I don’t set the agenda,” John said, taking another sip. Sherlock walked into the lounge, carrying his own cup of tea, as a car crunched up the drive outside. John sat up straight, grinning. “Ah, they’re here. Excellent. I’m off.” He dropped his tea cup on the coffee table, brushed a quick kiss across Sherlock’s cheek and waved in the vague direction of the monitor. “See you later!”

“My goodness. Where is he off to so fast?” Rosie asked, leaning into the camera as if she could follow John’s exit.

Sherlock settled back and sipped at his tea. “Well, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it.” At Rosie’s blank look, he chuckled. “A custody agreement must be honoured, Rosie. Tuesdays are John’s day with the dog.” \--- 


End file.
